The Woman Who Rides Like a Man (5 page)

"I wish I could view it that simply," Alanna said ruefully. "I still wonder if perhaps I moved too fast."

That's what he wanted you to think. Remember?
was the cat's tart reply.

Alanna shook her head, still unconvinced. "Merciful Mother, is it dark already?"

"Night comes swiftly here," Halef commented from the doorway. He crouched beside her, his face in shadow. "Already we have communed with the Voice of the Tribes. He comes."

"Who is this 'Voice of the Tribes'?" Alanna wanted to know.

"He is the first among us," the headman replied. "At sunset we gather at our fires and join with him—each man and woman among the Bazhir. Thus he knows our thoughts, our wishes. He knows what has passed during the day. He judges with complete knowledge of our hearts and our minds."

Alanna shivered, letting the Bazhir help her to her feet. "I doubt that I would be fit for such a life," she said dryly. "To carry all those memories every day? No, indeed!"

Halef Seif chuckled as he led her out of the tent. "Not many are called to the life of the Voice, if that soothes you," he commented. "He will be here within the week." For a moment the tall Bazhir sighed, looking older than his years. "Between thee and me, woman of my tribe," he said quietly, "I hope the Voice will aid me to a fair solution in this matter of Ibn Nazzir. The old man disturbs the tribe's balance between headman and shaman; it cannot end well." He grimaced. "Come. There are tales you have not heard. Before I forget his message, the Voice asks me to say that you have met him, in the Sunset Room of Persopolis Castle."

The Sunset Room?
she thought, startled.
The governor of Persopolis Castle! What was his name? Ali Mukhtab. He took us there, me and Jon and Raoul, Alex, Gary. He was the one who told us about the Black City. He was tall, with a nice vest, and intense eyes. Jon asked him for a written history of the Bazhir
—

"Ali Mukhtab?" she whispered in shock.
"Ali Mukhtab
is this 'Voice of the Tribes'?"

"He is," Halef Seif confirmed. "What better man to keep watch over the castle, where our oldest records are kept? Come. For now, become a member of the tribe. The Voice will be here in seven days. He will answer your questions then."

*

Halef Seif was a man of his word. Alanna and Coram were returning from a hunt with the young men of the tribe a week later when Faithful trotted out from the village to meet them.

He's here,
he yowled to Alanna in their private language.
The Voice of the Tribes. He has very good taste: he likes cats.

"I know he likes cats, and I don't think that's an indication of good taste," Alanna replied, leading Moonlight to her hitching place with the tribe's other horses. "Who's with him now?"

The shaman,
Faithful replied.
One of his women friends lured Halef Seif away with a lie about a quarrel in her household.

"The news isn't good?" Coram asked quietly as they rubbed their horses down.

Alanna shook her head. "Ibn Nazzir's stolen a march on us with Ali Mukhtab."

Coram raised his thick brows. "The Voice of the Tribes? But weren't ye sayin' ye were friends once?"

Alanna shrugged, leading the way to her tent. "That was six years ago. He may have changed. I don't know if he was this 'Voice of the Tribes' then." She opened her tent flap and stopped, astounded at the five bundles piled neatly inside. "What in the Name of—"

"It is the first written history of the Bazhir." The smooth voice behind them made Alanna and Coram jump; they turned to face Ali Mukhtab. The Voice of the Tribes wore a flowing blue burnoose tied with a darker blue cord: religious colors among the Bazhir, Alanna remembered. He was the same as when she had seen him last: tall, with walnut-colored skin and a neatly trimmed mustache, his large hooded eyes framed with long curly lashes. He bowed now, his well-carved mouth turning up in a very small smile.

Remembering her manners, Alanna invited him in. She was just wondering how she would offer hospitality to her distinguished guest when Kara and Ishak arrived, bearing chilled wine and fruit. They presented their offerings first to Mukhtab, then to Alanna and Coram, before taking up stations just outside the tent flap. Mukhtab chuckled.

"I see you have been adopted," he commented. "Those are two of the three young ones you've bewitched?"

"She hasn't bewitched anyone," Coram growled, emptying his cup with one gulp. "Ibn Nazzir's a dried-up, jealous old man."

"This is Coram Smythesson," Alanna explained to the Bazhir. "He taught me the basics of the knight's art, and he looked after me when I was a page."

For a moment Coram received the full power of Mukhtab's eyes as the Bazhir opened them wide, examining him from top to toe. Oddly, the burly man turned red. "She's Trebond," he said as if answering a question. "Smythessons have served Trebond for generations."

"You have always been blessed in your friends," Ali Mukhtab said to Alanna. "I suppose by now you are aware of it." Alanna nodded, blushing herself. "And so you are a knight, and you have told all that you are female. But you are not happy?"

Alanna fiddled nervously with the ember-stone around her neck. "I have a few things on my mind."

She didn't object when the man reached over and picked the ember from her fingers, examining it. At last he sighed and let her tuck it back beneath her shirt. "The favored of the gods always have much on their minds," he admitted. "The shaman says I am an unnatural leader because I will not order you slain. He thinks you have bewitched me. Is this so?" He was smiling. Suddenly Alanna felt as if a burden had been taken from her. This enigmatic man was still her friend, for whatever reasons.

Coram snorted with derision. "And when did she have time to do that?"

Mukhtab nodded. "I asked the same question, but received no satisfactory answer. When I inquired how the Voice of the Tribes may order the slaying of a member of the tribe without full cause under law and a just hearing before the fire, Ibn Nazzir told me the Nameless Gods would have my soul for their enjoyment." The Bazhir shrugged. "The law is the law; he knows this as well as any." His eyes were serious as he looked at Alanna. "He wants you dead, Alanna of Trebond."

"He had his chance when Hakim fought me," she replied carelessly. "I don't understand why he's making a fuss now."

"You are a terrifying creature," the Voice told her solemnly. "You do not take your place in your father's tent, letting men make your decisions. You ride as a man, you fight as a man, and you think as a man—"

"I think as a human being," she retorted hotly. "Men don't think any differently from women—they just make more noise about being able to."

As Coram chuckled, Mukhtab said, "Have you not discovered that when people, men and women, find a woman who acts intelligently, they say she acts like a man?"

Alanna could find no answer to this. She glared at the guffawing Coram.

"Many of those who take the shaman's leadership are women," Mukhtab went on. "You frighten them. You are too new; you are too different. Will they have to behave differently, now that you are of the tribe? Better that you die and become a legend. Legends force no one to change."

"This is too silly for words," Alanna snapped. "Why have you brought this history to me?" She waved at the bundled scrolls.

"Six years ago Prince Jonathan indicated he would be interested in a written history of the Bazhir," Mukhtab explained. "Since your return to the north, my people and I have labored long on just such a written record. Our tribes are very old. These scrolls tell all our story, from the time before we left our farms across the Inland Sea. We ask you to see that the Prince get them, as soon as possible. It is—vital." He looked at Coram. "May I speak with her alone?"

Coram struggled to his feet and left.

Alanna watched him go before asking, "Why is it vital? I hadn't planned to return to the palace for a long time."
If ever,
she thought with a terrible feeling of homesickness.

"It is vital," Ali Mukhtab whispered, leaning close, "because the end of my life draws near. Before I complete my last illness, Prince Jonathan must become the Voice of the Tribes."

* * *

3—Bazhir Shaman

For a moment Alanna stared at the Voice. Finally she tried a weak grin. "You're joking, of course."

"I have never been more serious."

Alanna shook her head. "I think you had better explain it to me."

"Certain tribes have been at war with the King in the North for two generations," Mukhtab began. "The cost has been great for both sides. Among our people there is bitterness between those who accept your King and those who do not. And in the end, the Northern King must win."

"How do you know?" Alanna wanted to know.

"A small Gift of prophecy is given to each Voice," was the reply. "Your King will win if we continue to fight, because this time the Balance is weighed in his favor. Conquered, my people—
our
people, now—would be driven from the desert that is mother and father to us. All those things that enable us to make war against the King and against the hillmen who are our enemies would be taken away. The tribes would be scattered; we would be one people no more.

"But if Prince Jonathan were to become the Voice of the Tribes, he would be King one day—a
Bazhir
King. He would know us as we do ourselves. The tribes you call 'renegade' would make peace, for none may war against the Voice of the Tribes. They will make peace, and the Voice will bring them into Tortall without bloodshed.

"We must accept the King in the North; there is no other way. But we can do it so that we never forget who we are. Prince Jonathan is the key. With my passing, he will be the Voice, and my people will be safe."

Alanna nibbled at her thumb, considering. "Maybe Jon won't want to do it," she said at last. "The position seems to carry a lot of heartache to me."

Ali Mukhtab smiled. "Jonathan was born to rule, as you were born to make your own way. If there is any way he can better govern his people, he will take it. I have watched him for years. He will not turn his back on such power." Reaching into his robe, he brought out a thick letter sealed with wax. "Will you send this and the history to him, and let him make the choice?"

Alanna took the letter. Mukhtab was right: Jon had to make this decision himself. "I'll see that he gets it."

*

Coram shook his head even as he pulled on his riding boots. "I don't like leavin' ye right now," he protested for the twentieth time. "That Akhnan Ibn Nazzir would feed ye to the wolves as soon as look at ye, and ye're sendin' me back to Corus."

"The sooner you ride to Corus, the sooner you'll be back to look out for me," Alanna said implacably. "This is important."

"Keepin' ye safe from that old buzzard isn't?" Coram demanded. "Ye said Mukhtab's sendin' a man with me?"

"He's waiting with the packhorse now," Alanna said, giving her friend an affectionate grin as they walked outside. "I'll, be all right. I have Faithful to look after me."

Coram scowled at the black cat, who was trotting ahead. "Some protection," he muttered. They halted, surprised to see Hakim Fahrar waiting with the horses. The tall Bazhir bowed.

"I am to ride with you," he said in response to the question on their faces. "The Voice has said it."

Alanna hugged Coram for a moment. "You'll be back before you know it," she said gruffly. "So leave!"

She watched the two men ride off, their pack-horse trailing behind. Fingering the ember at her throat, she blinked her watering eyes.